In the clear night, the mountain has groaned and trembled
over the bursting leaves
that run with green, perish, over the splintering roots of ancient alders. The wind comes still. Boldly, in the scent of ash I find my freedom.
- Hilda Doolittle
In the clear night, the mountain has groaned and trembled
over the bursting leaves
that run with green, perish, over the splintering roots of ancient alders. The wind comes still. Boldly, in the scent of ash I find my freedom.